Her fingers plucked at the
sheet. "John's been good to me," she went on, with closed eyes.
"But. . . if it 'adn't been for the children . . . yes, the children.... I
think I'd 'a' done better--" her speech lapsed oddly, after her years of
patient practice--"to 'ave taken . . . to 'a' taken"--the name
remained unspoken.
Tilly raised astonished eyebrows at Mary. "Wandering!" she telegraphed
in lip-language, forming the word very largely and distinctly; for
neither knew of Jinny having had any but her one glorious chance.
Tilly's big heart yearned over her sister's forlorn little ones; they
could be heard bleating like lambs for the mother to whom till now they
had never cried in vain. Her instant idea was to gather all three up in
her arms and carry them off to her own roomy, childless home, where she
would have given them a delightful, though not maybe a particularly
discriminating upbringing. But the funeral over, the blinds raised, the
two ladies and the elder babes clad in the stiff, expensive mourning
that befitted the widower's social position, John put his foot down: and
to Mary was extremely explicit: "Under no circumstances will I permit
Matilda to have anything to do with the rearing of my children excellent
creature though she be!"
On the other hand, he would not have been unwilling for Mary to mother
them. This, of course, was out of the question: Richard had accustomed
himself to Trotty, but would thank you, she knew, for any fresh
encroachment on his privacy.
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